Outside the Web
by Angela Friedhof
Summary: Based on David Bowie's album 'Outside' and Alice Cooper's album 'Along Came a Spider'. Miranda Thompson, an Art hater, becomes a sought-after model by two of the most brutal Artists in New Jersey. Only one man vows to protect her, but everyone lies here.
1. We've Been Waiting For You

***DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters. They belong to David Bowie. Spider belongs to Alice Cooper.***

The Characters

They call me the 'Artist'. That is my name. I do not recall going by any others. Even if I did, they must not have been significant enough to fit among my memories. How many artists are actually called 'Artist'? None. I am an original work of art... In more ways than one. - The Artist.

My Black Widow is almost complete. I need just two more...sacrifices? Yes. Sacrifices. Then she will be complete. Yes. Oh, my, what's this? A young brunette walking right into my web. How lovely. She will do just fine. But, wait! Two males from different directions following her? This may be a challenge. Good. - Spider

Life has never been good to me. I'm a waitress at the See Food, Eat It Restaurant during the night, and a single, struggling writer in the daytime. Books are a great interest to me; art is not. Art, not as in pretty paintings of flowers or seasides, but Art as in human mutilation. Blood flowing freely through canvases and brains on display is Art these days. I hate Art. - Miranda

I've been in some deep shit before in my line of work, but this takes the cake. One murder, three suspects, and one young lady that could be the next victim. The Y.L knew the Victim when they were younger. She's seen the murderer and another artist who also chose her for his prey. If I keep her alive long enough, I might have a chance to come face to face with both artists' form of art. Then I will judge. - Detective Nathan Adler

I have not been to Oxford Town. No, never...Until now. The detective recently had me on his suspect list for the murder of Baby Grace Blue. I knew her. Her and Romona. I never helped Romona. I knew her - that was all. I am nothing but a petty thief and am disliked by all in Oxford Town, except by one. That waitress at the seafood restaurant. She was kind to me. She even gave me directions to the train station. Wait, that screaming. Could it be her? - Leon Blank

Chapter 1: We've Been Waiting For You

It was around three A.M when Miranda Thompson left the Sea, It's Good! Seafood Restaurant. Her night shift usually ended at about five A.M, but her boss decided that she needed a break. That they all needed a break. Business was slow. Even the bar was slowly dying. The bartender was sucking down more booze than the customers were. Less and less people went out to eat at night. They were either locked up safely in their homes, or scavenging the city for Art shows. They would receive both a good show and refreshments there. Why go to a restaurant where you would just sit and eat when there were much more interesting things to do? Partially why the boss closed the restaurant for the night was because he was running late for an Art show downtown. Miranda hated Art. She never attended an Art show, nor would she ever attend one willingly. They were such gruesome events. If people wanted to see the result of a body chopped to bits or mortally wounded, why not stop by the morgue? Wouldn't that be cheaper? Yes, it would be. And of course, when alive, those bodies were most likely abducted by these artists late at night while walking along the dark, abandoned streets of Oxford Town, New Jersey on their way home. Just like Miranda. She knew she was stupid for leaving the restaurant for home. She had the key to the place, after all. Her books and some writings were stored in her locker/cubby. They could of kept her busy while she waited for the sun to come up and frighten the shadows away. She knew it was too late to turn back when she saw the straggly looking man dressed in black heading her way. His strides were long, allowing him to meet Miranda in no time. He stood right in front of her. She moved left, out of his way. He moved left, in her way.

"Got a light, Ma'am?" he asked in a scratchy, yet calm voice.

"No, sorry. I-I don't smoke," Miranda stammered. He was close enough to her that she felt his heavy breath on her cheek.

"Hmm. Neither do I." Miranda felt her neck skim his shoulder as he swiftly, forcibly picked her up. He held her legs tightly with both arms so she unable to kick, but she was able to pound his back with her fists and scream. The actions did not have any affect on the man, who continued his walk, turning a corner into a dead end.

"The city is deaf to the cries of a fellow human," he commented on her screaming, releasing her legs. She dropped backwards onto the cement, landing in an awkward sitting position. The man bent down. She saw him flash his pearly white teeth. A smile. A mischievous one? Yes. "My sweet, how would you like to give something to me?" He pulled out a cloth and a bottle from the pocket of his pants. Leather? It was too dark to make out any true details. He tilted the bottle so that it's contents - a liquid - dribbled onto the cloth.

"I don't have any money on me," she said.

"I don't need money. I need something more… _precious_." He launched at her, covering her mouth with the cloth. The fumes of the liquid surged through Miranda's nostrils. Her vision darkened, as did the rest of her senses, but she could still hear sounds of feet pounding on the cement. The police? Had they heard her struggle? Maybe. Yes, someone was grabbing her. Yanking her up from the ground. Was it the man? No. The man's hands were gloved, these hands were bare and soft. They held her against a chest of thin frame. The cloth was gone, and she was becoming more and more alert. The liquid had been Chloraphome and it was wearing off quickly.

"Where do you live?" A native male accent asked her. Wind swept through her hair. She was slumped in a passenger seat of a car. The windows were open and it was traveling at a speed of at least 60 mph.

"34 Halo Avenue," she answered warily, gazing upon the driver. He was in his early fifties. He wore an open, black jacket, a plaid dress shirt of red and faded green under it, a brown tie, and a black 1940's Stetson hat. He had long, short reddish-brown sideburns. A cigarette poked out from his lips.

"You was in some real danger back there," he said, throwing the cigarette out the window.

"Yes," Miranda said, trying to spark her missing memories. When did he put her in the car? "That man with the long black hair tried to knock me out with chemicals. He said he said he wanted something…something precious."

The man nodded. "That one wanted one of your legs. The other son of a bitch wanted your whole body to butcher."

Miranda sat erect in the seat. "Other? I only saw one." The man glanced at her, his face suspicious. "Only one? I had to practically play tug-of-war with the other. Your black haired man ran off." "I don't remember any fighting. Just yelling."

"The Chloraphome knocked you out. You just didn't realize it, that's what it does y'know. You were only half conscious most of the time."

"Oh…" She felt like an idiot. "Who was the other one then?" "The Artist. Is this you place?" He parked in the driveway of a lonely little home. It was dirty-white on the outside and even worse on the inside, but it was all she could afford.

"Yes, that's it."

"Well, you can't stay here." He stuck another cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and before Miranda could escape, drove out of the driveway so fast that the tires squealed.

"What are you doing?" She demanded, her heart pounding.

"Driving."

"That was my house."

"I know. It's not safe there. I'm taking you to my hotel downtown."

"It's not safe downtown," she protested. "You'll be with me and surrounded by people. You'll be safer than in this dark, quiet neighborhood. Trust me."

"And who am I trusting?" He grinned uneasily, picking up a small wallet from the dashboard and tossing it to her. She opened it and read aloud an I.D card tucked in a clear plastic pocket: "Detective Professor Nathan Adler of Art Crime Inc. The Arts Protectorate of London." She looked up. "Art crimes in London, England?"

"Art crimes in London, Canada," Nathan corrected her. "Do I sound British to you? I was born here and stationed at the bureau in So Ho, but I can wander anywhere I want."

"And solve Art crimes?" Miranda asked. Finally, someone to stop these horrible murders caused by artists.

"Yes."

"How did you find me?"

"Partly your screams, partly by accident. The Artist was stalking you, the black haired man was stalking you, and I was stalking another completely different suspect that I lost when I saw the Artist creeping in the shadows. Shadows don't work for him well; he's too white and blonde."

"What do you mean 'suspect'?"

"I'll tell you later, Miss..."

"Miranda. Thompson."

"Right."


	2. The Motel

Chapter 2: The Motel

Nathan Adler's motel room was cramped, hot, and in shambles - like most. And like most, it had only one creaky queen-sized bed. There was a torn armchair next to it. A T.V table and a lawn chair were at the far side of the room, parallel to the door. No windows. No T.V.

"Make yourself at home." He had a gruff, low Tom Waitsy voice combined with his accent. It made his words hard to distinguish. It made Miranda drowsy.

"When can I leave?" she yawned.

He took off his hat and jacket, noting the worried look on the young woman's face. "It's too hot in this room to wear these and I'm not sure. Unless you want to die sometime this week, I suggest you stick with me until I have proof that you're permanently safe."

"Fine, but I'm not sticking with you in that bed."

"Of course not, I'm sleeping the armchair."

He was nice, Miranda would give him that. To find a nice cop in Oxford town was rare. Getting reports on cops raping women on the streets, however, was not.

"Get some rest," he said. "You'll need it for tomorrow. We're going investigating." With those words, he settled into the armchair, leaned his head back, and grew silent.

* * *

_ Sleeping… What an useless action. How many strings of lies will there be by the time I'm finished with her? Enough to make a decent necklace. Maybe three. My conscious is tearing me down… Nothing a good smoke can't handle. Yeah. That's much better._

Detective Professor Nathan Adler stood outside his motel room, taking deep puffs from his cigarette. His eyes were blank and the veins in his temple were throbbing. It was apparent that he was having an inner conflict with himself.

_Should I leave her now and risk losing the closest thing I have to a witness in this case? I'll only be out for a little while…_

He had to get to H.Q in Soho in able to consult the Data Bank. There were still a few unclear items involving Miranda that needed to be cleared.

A half and hour later, Nathan sat in an empty room on a stool. The glass on the door of the room held the words DATA BANK LAB. Behind the door, in front of Nathan, was a large, computer-like machine, but far more advanced than any computer and it had the detective's full attention. The screen, of which his eyes were glued to, flashed up the following information:

Miranda Thompson: Female. Caucasian. Twenty-two. Waitress. Unmarried. Lower-class citizen. No convictions.

He scrolled down to the contact list. Five names in particular caught his eye.

Contacts: Baby Grace Blue, Ramona A. Stone, Algeria Touchshriek, Leon Blank, Detective Professor Nathan Adler.

These were the names that stood out the most. Besides his own, he was bewildered by them. Was this why everyone was after her? She knew Ramona. She knew Algeria. She knew Leon, and greatest of all, she had known Baby Grace, the most recent victim of the unknown artist slash murderer. But how? She didn't seem the type to be associated with them.

_Maybe she's hiding something?_

He thought back to how glad she was when she discovered that he was a detective.

_An Art felon wouldn't respond like that. She's too innocent, however, the Data Bank never lied before. She had known them. But when?_


	3. Leon

Chapter 3: Leon

Miranda woke up to an empty room and an empty stomach. She wanted to have breakfast in the small diner next door, but what about the detective? Will he be angry if she left? Did she care? No. She rolled out of bed, realizing she didn't have a change of clothes with her. She still stunk of pea soup and French fries. It didn't matter; most people downtown took so many drugs that all their senses were dulled. The room was chilly. It foretold that the weather outside would be much worst. A thin, short sleeved restaurant uniform would not suffice. She turned to Nathan's black jacket laying in the armchair. That would due.

The diner shared the name of the hotel - The Laugh. It was unpopular and unsanitary. Only a couple customers were eating when Miranda entered the place, sat down at a booth, and began reading the menu. There was one lone meal choice under the Breakfast column: Eggs and coffee. No Toast. No bacon. Not even a side plate of grits. She looked up, disappointed. A glum face of an old women was at her side. The waitress probably. She didn't hold a note-pad or a pen to write down orders, but she did have a name tag. Beverly, it read.

"What would like, Ma'am?" She had an annoyed secretary voice.

"Um…Eggs? And uh, water?"

"We don't serve water here. Would you like coffee?"

"Sure." She had drank coffee everyday for the last three weeks. She was sick of it, but she did need something to drink.

"Here ya go." Beverly was back already. She carelessly dropped a cracked dish of poached eggs in front of Miranda. The orange-ish yoke jiggled in place. She set a cup of black coffee at the end of the table. Miranda slid it towards herself.

"May I have some cream and sugar, please?"

Beverly scowled. "What do you think this is? An Art café?" She didn't wait around for an answer. She vanished through the double doors in the back that may of led to the kitchen.

Miranda picked up a fork and poked at the yoke. The protective membrane burst immediately, sliding down the grey white of the egg like lava down a volcano.

It was then she noticed a young brown-skin man sitting in front of her. He nodded his head at the eggs.

"I wouldn't try eating that; it might eat you," he said.

He looked familiar. "Well, I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for a while."

"You were eating some noodles back at that restaurant."

She remembered him now. "You're the guy who wanted directions to the train station."

"Yeah, I am."

"Did you find it?"

"I didn't get there yet. I might need you to refresh my memory if I decide to go."

"Why wouldn't you?" she asked. "I would love to get out of this city."

"I'm watching over this helpless girl who I heard getting attacked in an alley last night."

Miranda took a sip of her coffee and forced it down. Black coffee was gross. Whoever liked it was gross. So, someone else had heard her. "I'm not helpless. I was apparently ambushed and ambushes are awfully hard to escape."

"I see. And how did you escape?"

"An old man with a car." It was an odd way to describe Nathan. There were so many other words she could of used, including detective, but why scare this curious, sweet guy away?

"Ha. I've heard some funny stories in my day, but that tops it. My name is Leon, by the way. What's yours?"

"Miranda." If he wanted to just give his first name, she would do the same.

"Miranda. Nice." Leon smiled. "What happened to that old man with the car?"

"He came into the motel diner and found you here."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Nathan. Hi."

"Hello, Miranda Thompson. Hello, Leon Blank." Nathan took a swig of Miranda's coffee, swished it in his mouth, swallowed it. He took out a gun and aimed it at Leon.

"What are you doing?" Miranda questioned him, horrified.

"The old man is doing exactly what he told you he would; protect you. I have a confession to make, by the way. Last night I left you to check up on your background at the Bureau in Soho. I ended up falling asleep there. The beeping noise of the Data Bank, a computer, for those who don't know, woke me up. And lo and behold! Whose name suddenly appeared under your most recent contacts, Miranda? This man. Leon Blank. A petty thief and one of the suspects for the murder of Baby Grace Blue."


	4. I Have Not Been to Oxford Town

Chapter 4: I Have Not Been to Oxford Town

"What?" Miranda gasped. Surely her harmless, caring new friend hadn't murdered anyone.

"He is one of the suspects I mentioned to you about," Nathan said.

"Past suspect." Leon countered. "I _was _on your suspect list."

"I haven't crossed you out yet. You still have connections I can't ignore. And I recall telling you to get the hell out of here or be held in custody again."

"I was going to leave," Leon admitted. "I was heading out last night, but I heard screaming near where I was. It sounded like the waitress who gave me directions to train station."

Nathan eyed Miranda suspiciously. "You talked to him?"

"Of Course."

"Who else have you spoken to, Blank?"

"Not counting the guy who gave me a ride here and the hotel manager? No one else. Just let me go. I promise I won't bother either of you ever again."

"I can't let you do that." Nathan re-holstered his gun. "You say that you heard Miranda being attacked last night? You're a witness now. You're sticking with us."

The last part was almost the same sentence that he had told Miranda last night, but more threatening. He didn't like Leon. Maybe it was because he was a thief.

"You can't keep me here. What help could I give? I just heard screaming. I didn't see anyone."

"Ramona was there."

Miranda swore she heard Leon gulp.

"She was?" He remained quiet for a long moment. "I told you; I barely know her."

"I told you I didn't believe you. I could say that you spoke to Ramona after you talked to Miranda and told her where she was going. I could also -"

"Stop!" Miranda shouted. She was sick of this. "I can smell the testosterone from here! I didn't see a woman I saw a man. A long-haired, creepy looking man who wanted one of my legs. That was all. No Ramonas. Just let him go, Detective."

He stared at her, contemplating his next words. Or word. "No."

"But -"

"No. Besides, you two seem to be getting along just fine."

* * *

_Leon Blank was the last person I wanted to see. The Data Bank said he was an Outsider with three convictions for petty theft. He had known Algeria Touchshriek and Baby. He admitted that he had known Ramona. Not worked with her, only knew her. He was also a liar. If I keep an eye him, he might confess. Not to me, but to Miranda. He likes her. Not sexually, but like in a brother and sister relationship. They're the same age, aren't they? Though Leon is mentally older from living on the streets since childhood. Miranda has only her sarcasm and out-going personality to survive in this world…_

* * *

"Leon?" Miranda nudged him. They were in Nathan's car. She was in the front and he was slumped in the back, his hands cradling his head. She felt like they were little kids waiting for their father to come out of the store. That's where Nathan was. The local general store getting supplies, or whatever he said he was getting. The store was crunched between an Art café and an Adult World. Most people lived here. Get your groceries at the store, an alcoholic beverage at the café, and a Playboy magazine for reading or a sex toy for some fun later.

"Leon."

"Yeah?" Two black eyes peered from in between his fingers.

"It's going to be fine. He said he wasn't going to turn you in."

"I know."

"Don't you believe him?"

"I do, actually," Leon said, removing his hands from his face. "It's just I want out. I'm sick of Art. I use to love it."

"I've always hated it," Miranda said.

"I understand it not giving you any pleasure, but for me…it did. I use to love reading about Artists like Chris Burden... And then Ron Athey came and he became my hero for a while."

Chris Burden and Ron Athey. The names made Miranda shiver. Chris Burden was an Artist back in the 70's who had his limbs removed joint by joint until he was left with just a torso and one arm, or so they say. In 1994, Ron Athey didn't mind putting sewing needles through the skin of his chest or forehead, or carving a design into someone else's back with a disposable scalpel. They were sick men. Leon must have been sick too.

"But I got out of liking all that," he continued. "I'm clean now. Adler doesn't think so."

"I do."

"Thank you. You must be the first person I ever had on my side."

A hard knocking on Miranda's window interrupted the touching scene. It was Nathan. What a surprise. He opened her door and handed her a full, large paper bag. He slammed the door, moving to the driver's side. Miranda peeked into bag. Cigarettes, coffee, a bottle of whiskey, a couple bottles of soda pop. Cheese. Duct tape. Shaving cream. A mirror.

"Did you get all these things for yourself?" she asked him as he settled into the car seat. He took out his last cigarette. Lit it.

"No. The cheese, the mirror, and the soda are for all of us. Leon can share the shaving cream with me, and Duct tape is very handy."

"You watch too much MacGyver."

"Who?"

"Never mind."

Nathan reached in the bag and pulled out one of the bottles of soda. He threw one, without looking, in Leon's general direction. To Miranda's surprise, Leon swiped it in thin air.

"Great reflexes, Leon," the detective commented. "Miranda…Did you two have a nice chat?"

"Yeah."

Nathan nodded as if that was the answer he was expecting. He turned the car - a '66 Barracuda, Miranda at last noticed - on and spun out of the parking lot.


	5. Escape

Chapter 5: Escape

Nathan couldn't help mentioning on way back to the motel that they would be returning to the Art Café next to the store later on. He said that they might find out something useful. He never elaborated on this. Miranda thought this annoying.

When they returned, Nathan allowed Leon to go to his motel room unsurpervised. Even though Miranda didn't think Leon would do anything terrible, she still didn't think it was wise for the detective to take his eyes off him. It was just bad detectiving in her mind. Still, she went with Nathan into his room and sat in the armchair, arms and legs crossed. Every minute that passed in the room, she became angrier. He hadn't spoken a single word and was keeping himself busy by smoking and scribbling on a notepad. If he was going to keep her prisoner here with Leon, she would at least like to know was going on. Who was Baby Grace Blue? Who was Ramona? And this Algeria guy? Leon knew. She wanted to too.

"Detective."

"Hm? Don't you mean 'old man'?" Nathan feigned a half smile.

"Uh, sorry about that… What is going on?"

Nathan stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray on the bed next to him. "Y'know, you're still wearing my jacket."

Miranda felt her arm. Yes, she was. No wonder she was warm. "That doesn't matter. You're trying to throw me off track."

"Yeah. It's my job."

"Well, I need to know," she said.

"You want to know. That's different" Nathan placed the notepad and pen down on the mattress. He slid off the bed and sat on the floor, one leg out, the other bent. An elbow leaned on the bent one. "Y'know what you and Leon have in common besides age?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You both knew the same people."

"What do you mean?" Surely not-

"Baby Grace Blue and Ramona A. Stone. When you say, and I know you will, that you never even heard of these names until now, I understand. The memories must be hidden deep, deep in your subconscious."

"Yet you don't 'understand' Leon."

"You hardly know Leon; I do."

Miranda uncrossed her arms. "Okay. Then how do I get these memories out of my subconscious?"

"Simple," Nathan said, standing up. "You need a trigger. Let's see what ol' Leon is doing." He stopped right before the door. "By the way, I also got you some clothes. They're in the trunk of the 'Cuda. I'll go to Leon's room; you go to the car and get changed - quickly."

"I'll make sure that I do."

The clothes were average: two pairs of tight-fitting jeans and three navy blue T-shirts that had ART CRIMES INC. printed on the breast pockets. She slipped on one of the shirts at the same time Nathan came into sight. He opened the car door and sat inside. He was alone.

"Where's Leon?" she asked as the engine of the Barracuda roared awake.

"Gone," he answered nonchalantly.

"Gone? He ran off?" So she was wrong about him.

"Of course. What did you think he would do? Wait for us to call him for help?"

"I don't know… Maybe?"

"Relax, Miranda. Remember that plaza a coupla miles from here?"

The one with the Art Café? "Yes."

"I bet you he's there." They were on the road now.

"What makes you so sure?"

"He thinks he can get information from the people there."

That's why he took them to the store. Not for groceries but so Leon could get an eye-full of his surroundings.

"But he said he was done with all that."

"Miss Thompson, if you don't start thinking, I will not let you to wear any of the Art Crime shirts I got you. You'll give us a bad name."

"That a threat?"

"I think he took a cab, don't cha?"

Trying to reason or even joke with this man was futile. Completely futile. "If he took a cab, I think he would of gone further. We lost him by now."

"Nah." He parked the car in the exact spot he had parked it earlier. "Wait here."

"My pleasure." She was glad that he didn't force her to go with him. She had been in an Art Café once. It reminded her of Ripley's Believe it or Not! meshed with sex and murder. And the smell in those places! The scent of rotting human flesh. Some of the human flesh was still alive. Screams of agony would escape from the not-yet-deceased mouths, that is, if they had mouths.

Once again, Miranda saw Nathan reappear without Leon. This time not so confident.

"What happened?" She asked.

"He fucking isn't here. Never fucking was." He slammed the car door close.

A flood of triumph overcame her. "Guess I was right."

"Half right. We didn't lose him." He handed her a black box with a screen. "While I get you off track, this will get us on track. Leon Blank's track. Or trail… Anyway, this is a tracking device. See that red dot? That's Leon. The blue dot is us. I attached the device's component to Blank's shirt. It's microscopic, but it shows up on here."

"Okay. Let's go, but I bet you we won't find him."

"Technology doesn't lie, little girl."


	6. Captured

Chapter 6: Captured

The tan Barracuda screeched to a halt next to an Art Café under a street light. This one differed from the other greatly. It wasn't connected to any store - except for a dingy shop on its backside that had been shut down ages ago - and it was booming with customers. It was also larger and more intimidating. This was where the tracking device had taken them. This was where Leon went. Or was it? Whether the answer to that was yes or no, Nathan readied himself to go in anyway.

"Jacket please,"

"It's in the back," Miranda said.

He reached in the back seats, grabbed it, and was soon wearing it. "It smells like French fries," he commented, disgusted.

"I can't believe you can still smell with all that smoke hanging in the air."

"I can. You coming with me?"

Miranda cringed inside. "Can't I just stay here?"

Nathan shook his head. "It's more dangerous out here than in there."

"Please? I won't leave the car."

"Fine. Stay." He ambled off, joining the crowd waiting to go inside the building.

A half an hour later, she was still in the car and Nathan was still in the café. She was bored to death. She wanted to take walk. Just a little walk. The detective wouldn't mind. Yes he would. Still, he didn't run her life. Miranda stepped out of the Barracuda, closing the old car door as quietly as possible. She didn't want to walk around the café, but that closed-down shop caught her imagination. Maybe this was the 'trigger' Nathan had mentioned.

She made it to the door without being noticed. Such an accomplishment. She cupped her hands to the glass. Peeking inside, she recognized letters painted on a wooden sign: AD's FOR SALE. AD's. Art Drugs. She remembered an Art Drug store a few miles from her middle school. Was this the same one? Was the café added on to it later?

"I'm just letting what Nathan said get to me…" She started back toward the car. A van she never saw before was parked next to it. In the light, she could see a man caring a few leather bags wearing a baseball cap. He was trying, with trouble, to open the back door. He smiled at her.

"Hi," the man said in a soothing voice. "I was just wondering if you could help me out. Um… my hands are full. Could you just help me open the door to my van?"

"Yeah. Nothing better to do, right?"

"Nope, he laughed. Something about this was vaguely familiar. She pulled the handle. The door clicked open.

"Must not be your lucky day."

The sound of full bags hitting the ground banged mercilessly at her eardrums. Two powerful arms pushed her into the vehicle. The door slammed shut. Although the noise outside was muffled, she could still identify a New Jersey accent shouting something.

"DAMN IT!"

* * *

"_What's your name?" the little girl asked._

"_Miranda."_

"_Miranda…" She exaggerated the name so it sounded like Miiiiraaaandaaaa. "That's pretty."_

"_Thank you. What's your name?"_

"_Baby Grace Blue but everyone calls me Baby. It's because I have a little baby voice… I think."_

"_Baby!" A demonic female voice called. "Come here!" The next order was directed to Miranda. "Go away, girl. Go…away."_

* * *

"Having a dream, Puppet? Looks like a killer."

Miranda opened her groggy eyes. She was lying on a freezing, metal hospital table. Her limbs were numb. The long haired man was sitting next to her. Arms folded on the table, just touching her arm. She couldn't feel it, but she saw it out of the corner of her eye. He had successfully captured and sedated her. No tug-of-war battles in a dark alley this time. He did it in a parking lot with a crowd of people standing, chatting, nearby.

"You look like a killer," she murmured. He still heard it.

"You look helpless." He got up and circled the table. "Did you know that you can't move?"

"I was getting around to asking about that."

He sneered. She was reminded of his flawless smile. Apart from the smile, he was tanned with deep blue eyes.

"It's an Art Drug. It paralyzes the entire body so it won't feel a thing if someone was to detach something from it."

Detach. Was she legless? She attempted to lift her head to see. No use.

"Don't worry. They're still there."

"How do I know for sure?"

He let out a heavy sigh. The next second she felt excruciating pain throughout her right arm. She sat up as fast a lightning, cradling her arm with the other. She turned tearfully to the man, who was discarding a syringe into a trash can yards away. Then she looked down. Everything was attached.

"They call me Spider," he said. "I never release my prey from the horrible fate I have planned for them, but you are going to be an exception."

"Why? You went through a lot of trouble to get me."

"True." He sat back in his chair. "But I discovered that you can be much more useful to me alive than dead."

"And why is that?"

He brought himself closer to her. She could once again feel his breath on her cheek. "Because you're my bait, Puppet. And I'm going after big game."


	7. Bugged

Chapter 7: Bugged

_I don't know why I left the girl alone. It was obvious she would leave the car once I left. I shoulda dragged her into that café. So what if what was in there would scar her for life? There were a bunch of young women in there waiting patiently for their masculine partners (the majority male) to stop 'oohing' and 'ahing' at the Art. If they could handle it, so coulda Miranda. Now Freak # 2 has her. The Artist - Freak # 1 - is stealthier than that. I wouldn't of seen evidence one if he had taken her until after he slaughtered her._

_What to do? Blank is with me. He got into the 'Cuda without a struggle. Whoever he was searching for wasn't there. Scratch that. Ramona wasn't there. He is next to me. A worried face marks him._

"You think she's alright?" Leon asked the detective.

"Honestly? Nope."

He punched my dashboard with all he had. I didn't check, but I'm sure there's a damn dent in it.

"This is all my fault! If I didn't run away to find…" His words drifted off into space.

_Bingo. Gotcha._

"To find…?"

"Drop it." Leon snarled. "I did something wrong and I want to fix it."

"You can't," Nathan said. "What's done is done."

"We can at least look for her."

"Yep."

_I didn't tell him - I wanted to watch him panic - that I had put a microscopic tracking device on each of Miranda's shirts. I'm tracking her right now. Time to put the 'Cuda back on the road… Again._

* * *

Spider was an unstable maniac. He refused to let Miranda go or to tell her who or what he was after. She felt weird being with him. Not weird as in 'he's a serial killer who might snap at any given moment', but weird as in 'he isn't a bad as he seems, even though he kills people'. Nothing makes sense any longer.

Miranda was still in the room with the hospital table and the trashcan. Her arm still burned like hell. Spider was still staring hungrily at her. She was still staring curiously at him.

"When are we going?" she asked.

"Once I get the equipment I need," Spider said, sharpening a knife against a jagged piece of stone. He stopped. He brought it up to Miranda's eye-level. She could see her reflection in the blade. Her hair was a drastic mess and dark circles had claimed the puffy flesh underneath her eyes. "You think," he said in a hushed tone. "You think this would slice easily through his neck?"

Nathan's? His neck was horribly thin. There wasn't any fat on it to give the blade any hardships passing through. It did have some muscle though. Muscle's tough. However, no matter what substance hung on the neck, the throat stood no chance against a knife. Especially that knife. Hold on, why was she thinking about this? "Yes."

"It could slice easily through yours too." The point of the knife nudged her cheek. It punctured a hole. She wiped at it and was rewarded with smudged blood on her palm. "Don't try anything with me," he warned her.

"I won't. I promise."

He smiled at her, sheathing the knife in a leather sheath hooked on his belt that matched the rest of his attire. "By the way, I didn't mean your detective friend."

Was he psychic? Or psychotic? "Oh. It wouldn't of made sense anyway. If you wanted to kill him, you could of waited for him to come out of the café and do so instead of throwing me in the back of your van."

"Unless I wanted to have some fun," Spider said.

"That's what you call fun?"

"Yes. Anything wrong with it?"

She wanted to explode on him, but she restrained herself; she did not speak.

"If I wanted to kill the Detective Professor, he would have been dead before he ever had a chance to meet you. You owe him a lot, huh? He rescued you. That was your lucky day."

"Yeah, and today was a nightmare."

Spider laughed mischievously. "It's not over yet, Puppet."

Miranda hugged Spider's torso for dear life. He was a speed demon on a motorcycle. They were traveling at least 80 miles per hour down the lonely highway. The sound of the hog was making her deaf, but she swore she heard Spider yell at her to give him her T-shirt. He had previously ordered her to replace the Art Crimes Inc. T-shirt with a black silk blouse after she had watched his face experience a twitching fit. He told her he had sensitive hearing. The shirt wasn't loud. It was very plain, but the blouse was nicer.

"Okay!" The shirt was the barrier (besides the clothes they were wearing) between her breasts and his upper back, but she didn't need him wrecking the bike at this speed because she wouldn't give him what he wanted. Miranda took a chance, using one of her arms to pull it out. Fighting the great force of the wind, she stretched her arm past Spider's shoulder. He swiped it from her.

Seconds later, Miranda saw something navy blue bullet past her. It made her think of Leon when Nathan was aiming the gun at him in the diner. She wondered if Nathan ever found him. If whether the tracking device ever worked. The tracking device that Nathan had put on Leon's… Miranda's breathing became rapid.


	8. The Artist: Thoughts

Chapter 8: The Artist - Thoughts

_The Itsy Bitsy Spider crawled up the water spout…What a silly child's song. I admit, it has been embedded into my mind ever since that creature foiled my capturing of the girl. She was mine. I had chosen her precisely. Picked out all the rotten eggs in the basket and uncovered a lone unblemished one: a brunette christened 'Miranda'. Then this scavenger spied her and went in for the kill immediately. I would not be surprised if he did not know her hair color until he had brought her into the beam of the street light. What shocks me the most is he seems set on having her for his own selfish reasons. I could give or take her myself. Even more so now that I am well aware of her inner blemishes. The outer shell only covers up so much. Her yoke is spotted with lust and desire… Stubbornness and the absence of an open mind. There are so many other young women with those particular flaws. All I would have to do would be to lure one with my charm, hook her, reel her in, and have her for supper. Yet, Spider must have it in his mind that if Miranda is not his victim, he shall surely die! I like the sound of that. I would rather of used her in my last piece with only seeing her innocence, but I could always include her in my latest just to irk my rival._

_And he is using her to irk me. Abducting her outside of an art café? Such a dull move. He believes that it was my fault that he did not get her the first time. Adler would still have rescued her. If it was anyone's fault, it was Ramona's. She led him accidentally right to them. Not me. He is oblivious of that fact. He has turned into a hot head who wants more than anything to have me dead. Revenge. He should take it out on Adler, but wait, I forget myself. Spider would have subdued Adler in a rabbit's heartbeat if it was not for me jumping into the squabble. I wanted to give it one last chance. After all, I do not give up so easily._

_And Adler. That worm of a man wishes to uncover the mystery of Baby Grace Blue. He snagged the shoplifter. Oh, what fun that boy Leon is…so many obvious weaknesses! Same for Adler; he is a cold-hearted son of a bitch who loves gore. And they are following Spider and Miranda, who believe they are hot on my trail. Hold on… I could use them all for my future masterpiece! The public will be astounded at the sight of what I have been cooking up for them!_


	9. Touchshriek

Chapter 9: Touchshriek

"Fuck!" was the only word Leon heard out of Nathan's mouth for five straight minutes after they pulled off to the side of a deserted, never-ending road. The Detective was at the side of the car, on his knees crinkling a navy blue material with bony fingers. He finally returned to the driver's seat with a thump and an annoyed grunt. Leon sought an explanation for his actions.

"So, what's that?"

Nathan stared at him like a ferocious, starving mountain lion. "Miranda's shirt."

Leon's stomach plummeted. "He killed her?"

"No. Even worst - he ruined my plan."

"What plan?"

"My ingenious 'tracking device in shirt' plan. He must of sensed it."

Leon clicked his tongue and frowned, faking sympathy. "You're angry because he outsmarted you."

"No, I'm angry because we haven't found Miranda yet."

Leon rolled his eyes. "Riiight… Nature must of done a job on this shirt." He drew their attention to an odd circle of holes on the sleeve

"Yeah. And nature has silver hair," Nathan pricked the shirt, producing a strand of silver human hair. "There's a question to be answered now: who's been wearing Miranda's clothes?"

Algeria Touchshriek was one of the most popular Art drug dealers in New Jersey. He was an Outcast who dwelled in a shack in the middle of nowhere. That was where Nathan and Leon were. Nathan had only heard of Algeria, but he knew the man's background like the back of his hand. Leon, however, had met him.

He was introduced to the reclusive old man by Ramona, who, at that time, was buying Art drugs from. She was practicing the art of body jewellery. Nipple earrings, lamb penis necklaces, bracelets made out of human skin. These were the items she was most known for. In able to make them, however, she needed either human or animal specimens. They had to be fresh when first cut because most of the good stuff on a long-dead body had already rotted away. Still alive bodies were ideal. The skin could be properly preserved and dried out, as well as its internal organs. That's where Algeria came in. One shot of the right drug would instantly paralyze a specimen, allowing the artist to easily free them of their body parts.

When he wasn't selling the drugs, he sought out curious items along the road. He would sometimes dissect the item and use them as an ingredient for a new drug. Miranda's Art Crimes shirt was one of his victims.

Leon and Nathan stepped up onto the rickety wooden front porch of Algeria Touchshriek's shack. Nathan, being the braver of the two, banged on the door. It shook the entire shack.

"Yes?" a feeble voice answered. The door knob turned and the door creaked open. An old man poked his head out. White whiskers decorated his chin and a mound of wrinkles collected around his frightened almond eyes.

"Algeria Touchshreik," Nathan spoke. "I found this article of clothing near here - on the side of the road. Do you know how it got there?"

"Who might you be?" Algeria asked, ignoring the detective's question. Then his eyes lit up slightly when he spied Leon half hidden behind Nathan. "I know you. You're Ramona's friend. How is she? I haven't seen her for months."

Leon shrugged. "I haven't seen her for a while either."

"Oh. I hope she is alright." He turned back to Nathan. "And you? Who are you?"

"I asked you about this shirt. It has holes in it, so I can make an easy bet that you took some thread out of it."

The old man backed up further into the doorway. "Are you attempting to threaten me? Are you a policeman?"

"Yes, but I'm not here to threaten you. I'm here to find a friend. We were hoping that you saw anyone near the road."

Algeria nodded. "I witnessed a motorcycle zoom by. It had two passengers on it. I could not make them out. Except…they both had long hair. Does that help?"

"She's alive," Leon whispered.

"She was then, at least." Nathan tossed the clothing to Algeria, who failed to catch it. "You can keep that for your drugs."

Algeria choked a bit. "The threads are useless. Are you an Art Crimes Detective or just a common policeman?"

"Which one are you the most worried about?"

"Well, judging by the fact that young Leon is standing freely by your side, I don't think I have much to worry about either way. But, since he is by your side, I'll guess that you're a detective. You did not come here just to ask about a grubby shirt and a missing friend, you wish to find out about Baby Grace Blue."

"Good guess, old man," Nathan said, puffing on a cigarette. "Do you know anything about her?"

"Yes. She was a sweet girl, but I was forbidden to be near her too much."

"Ramona wouldn't let you?"

The old man's eyes twitched. Leon cleared his throat.

"This is not necessary information, Detective," Leon said.

"Not for you. Stop trying to protect Stone and I might leave you alone after this. Continue Algeria."

"Ramona didn't want the girl to have any social contact. She did not want the girl to become attached to anyone."

"Did she?"

"Yes, When Baby was around seven, she befriended a teenage girl. I don't know who she was, but she was a brunette."

Leon sighed. "Miranda."


	10. Strangers When We Meet

Chapter 10: Strangers When We Meet

He did it. Spider had forced her to do something she never ever wanted to do: enter an Art Café. He had dragged her into some sort of bar room. She kept her eyes shut the entire way in, grasping Spider's wrist. She had dug her nails deep into that wrist. It wasn't sufficient payback, but it would do for now.

Normally, Miranda would not of allowed anyone to do such a thing, but Spider was persistent and began to threaten her after she refused the first several times. She didn't feel like having a knife embedded in her throat, so in together they went.

"Spider, where are you going?" Miranda screeched when she saw that he was leaving her.

"I'm on the hunt," he growled, and believing that she was satisfied, he exited the bar to the main room. But she wasn't. She was scared out of her wits.

The bar looked like the sort of bar you would find in an exclusive celebrity club: spotless table, bowls of peanuts placed about six feet apart, a large mirror hanging up behind the table, and below that on a long shelf, many, many assortments of alcohol…and jars of human organs. It was revolting, but not as bad as what waited for her if she dared to go after Spider.

"What would you like Miss?" a punk-looking guy covered with facial piercings wearing orange contacts asked.

"Just a soda if you have any," she told the bartender.

He rolled his eyes. "Diet or regular?"

"Regular, please."

"Ooh, you like the hard stuff, eh?"

Miranda gasped. A man was sitting in the stool next to her. She must have been so engrossed in the bartender's appearance that she hadn't noticed him settle there.

"I don't like booze," she said.

"Ah, you're one of the few smart ones in the world then." He was British, there was no mistaking that accent. He was a Brit with short, gelled blonde hair, almost spiked, a thin nose, charming smile, and beautiful moonlight-blue eyes. His appearance was more intriguing than the bartender's - except in a good way. "I do not drink either," he continued. "I am not saying that I am one of the smart ones, though."

"Oh," was all Miranda could say. She felt that if she talked anymore, this dashing stranger would go away.

"Why are you in here? Would not you rather have gander of what is in the Showroom?"

Great. Another Art fiend. "No thank you. I'm not big on Art."

"Too gross for you?"

The bartender slid a glass of soda towards her. She grabbed it, placing it to the side. "Yes."

"Then why, may I ask, are you here?"

"A friend brought me here. He's quite interested in Art." Did she just call a serial killer her friend?

He cocked her head to one side. "Friend as in…?"

"Just a friend. He's an acquaintance, actually."

"One of those…" the man nodded.

"Why aren't you in there?"

The man flashed a wolf-smile. It made Miranda's skin crawl. She didn't know why.

"I saw you here, alone and afraid. I thought you would like some company."

Miranda scoffed. "I'm not afraid or alone. The bartender is here." She tipped her head towards the bottles and jars. No one was there.

"Looks like he realized that business was slow," the man chuckled. "He left the radio on." The bar was completely blocked off from the showroom by sound-proof walls and a door. The music playing from behind the bar was loud and in perfect clarity, undisturbed by whatever ruckus was happening in the next room.

'Rock Me Gently', an early seventies' song, captured Miranda's ears. She remembered hearing it once a while back. She loved it then. She loved it now.

"Would care to dance?" the man asked her, getting up.

"I don't even know your name and you want me to dance with you?"

"Names are not important. Come on." That smile again.

"My friend could be back at any moment."

"You mean your acquaintance?" He chuckled again.

Miranda took a deep breath as she stood up, defeated. She offered him her arms, which he placed lightly on his shoulders. His own made their way to her torso. They were eye to eye. He made her feel fantastic, this stranger. Out of all the people that she had met in the past two days, he was the only one who made her feel this way. She didn't even know his name. She didn't have a need to find out anyway.

"Not bad," he complimented her in a sing-song voice.

"Thanks. You're not bad yourself."

"Thank you."

Miranda took this as a chance to wrap her arms fully around his neck. She laid her head on his shoulder. He smelled of expensive cologne and something else. Paint? …Blood? She drew her head back in shock, causing the man to tighten his grip on her torso in surprise.

"What's wrong?" he croaked.

"You're an artist?"

"Yeah. How did you guess?" He still held her close.

"I smelled paint on you and b-blood."

"It is hard to get those smells off sometimes. Does it bother you?"

Miranda nodded fearfully.

"Of course it does. I understand completely." He released her. "You are different. I like that. Most women would love to be with an artist. You would rather burn it seems. Something occurred in your past to hate us so. What was it, I wonder? Never mind. It was nice meeting you." He brought his hand to her cheek as if to brush it with his fingertips. He hesitated. Miranda closed her eyes in disappointment. She had ruined this. When she opened them, he was gone.

Not even few minutes passed before she was bombarded with the shouts of three familiar men: Nathan, Spider, and Leon. She was astonished to see them together, knowing that Spider was one of the villains Nathan had promised to protect her from.

"Miranda, who was that man you were with?" Nathan demanded, not asked.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "A guy. An artist."

Spider shook his head. "That wasn't just _an_ artist, that was _the_ Artist.


	11. Repetition

Chapter 11: Repetition

"If he was the Artist, why didn't he kidnap or kill me?" Miranda questioned the men.

"He was testing you," Nathan explained. "He wanted to know if you were the right subject for his project."

"A taste test," Spider added bluntly

Leon sniffed. Miranda could tell that this held no interest for him. "I'm just glad you're alright, Miranda."

"Thank you, Leon. At least someone's a gentleman." She directed this comment sarcastically to Nathan and Spider. They just glared at her.

"You didn't find the Artist gentleman-like?" Nathan raised an eyebrow. "That's what he's known for; the Hannibal Lecter of the real world.

"I did, in fact. It's a shame that a detective has less manners than a criminal."

"I found that I don't need manners to get through life," Nathan said.

"No wonder you're a lonely man," Spider muttered.

Nathan turned his head slowly towards the long-haired villain, his lips curling disgustingly into a snarl. "You're relationships end well, don't they, Spider?"

"They only end that way because I choose them to. I could easily live a normal life."

"Seems unlikely."

"Do you quarrel with every man you encounter?" Miranda scolded the detective-professor. "Are you some kind of ram or elephant seal?"

"He started it, I'm trying to end it."

"You're not very successful at it," Leon said, his eyes downcast.

"One more word out of you, you little twit, and I'll-"

"Nathan, Stop!" Miranda breathed. " Just one of you please tell me what's going on? Why is Spider still here?"

"We've formed an alliance," Spider explained.

"A hopefully short one," Nathan murmured. Miranda and Leon both eyed him disapprovingly.

"We all want about the same thing," Spider admitted. "I want to kill the Artist, Adler wants to know what he's up to and both he and the boy wants to find some woman who is connected to the Artist."

"The 'boy' had to be a reference to Leon. What Spider said about Nathan only wanting to know what the Artist was doing confused Miranda. Didn't he want to kill him too? Or at least arrest him? It didn't matter; they were still going after him.

They split up after they left the café. Nathan had forced Leon to ride with Spider on his motorcycle, much to Spider's displeasure. That meant Miranda had to ride in the smoke-filled, alcohol-stained Barracuda with the grumpy Detective. She had a feeling Nathan had ordered the split-up so he could talk with her alone. It was finally time for her to know what was going on.

Five minutes passed before Nathan grinded his cigarette butt into the car ash tray and spoke: "We're going to Spider's hideout."

"You mean the one in the old hospital?"

"No, another one. I have to see something of his."

"What?"

He stared at her, contemplating whether or not to tell her. "I need to see…" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. He said his place is about a half an hour away. He's taking a short-cut, but I know about where it is."

"Oh." So he was still keeping secrets. "Nathan… What's going on? Why does the Artist want to kill me? And who is Ramona A. Stone?"

Nathan caught her eye with his. Was that pity she saw? "The Artist and Ramona are connected, you know that," he began. "Ramona A Stone was once a priestess of the Caucasian Suicide Temple in Berlin. By the time it was shut down, she had oversaw more than forty check-outs. Then she arrived in London, Canada, setting up a string of body-parts jewellery stores. She had several here too. It was a big thing, believe it or not. Celebrities and the other filthy rich wanted a skull cap for their child or a human skin face mask or whatever. Only problem was, they went in, but didn't always come out. No one really worried until a well-known celebrity went into one of Ramona's shops, the Gallstone, to purchase a diamond-encrusted umbilical cord as a celebratory thing to announce her pregnancy. She never exited the shop. That was fourteen years ago. Baby Grace Blue was fourteen when she was murdered. Get the picture?"

Miranda nodded. She didn't like the story - to many disturbing details, but she did understand. "You think Ramona killed the actress and kept her baby, then murdered the child later on for Art?"

"For Art's sake. The thing is, I'm not sure if it was Ramona who killed her or not. It might have been her original idea, but the way Baby's corpse was laid out... The areas of her stomach carefully flapped open and her intestines removed, disentangled into a small web and hung between the pillars of the murder-location. And the sixteen hypodermic needles, pumping four major in preservatives - coloring agents, memory information, transport fluids, and some kind of green stuff - it's not Ramona's style."

"You think it was the Artist."

"Yes. Yet, Ramona was an accomplice as well as our boy Leon."

"I thought he wasn't involved."

"He was. Now, there is someone who I discovered had known Baby Grace Blue and could help me out a lot."

"Who?" Miranda asked, although she already knew.

"You knew her, Miranda. You just blocked it out. It makes sense too. The Artist must of seen you with Baby - he always keeps and eye on his projects - and saw how oddly you acted. He took some interest in you. I don't blame him. The thing is, I need to know for sure who killed her. Take this." He pressed a colorless pill into the palm of her hand. "Algeria gave it to me. It'll help you remember."

"What if I don't want to?"

"I want you to," he said, stroking her wrist once as if to console her. It didn't.

She had to give in anyway. He had, after all, saved her several times. She had to repay him somehow. This was it. "Okay…I'll do it." Miranda tilted her head back, dropping the pill down her throat. She swallowed the tasteless drug. After a while, she was unable to see her surroundings, but then she saw…a street? A child was running towards her. She was in her past.


	12. Slip Away

Chapter 12: Slip Away

The little girl waved at Miranda, who could only wave back.

"Miranda," a voice called her name. Was it God? She never imagined God having a New Jersey accent. No, far from it. It was Nathan. "Do you see her?"

_Yes_, she thought, afraid the girl would think her crazy if she spoke to the voice in her head aloud.

"Miranda? Can you hear me? Speak. They can't hear you. It's like a rerun of a an old T.V show."

"I see her," she finally answered. Feeling embarrassed, she glanced down. An arm swung from her stomach. Then a leg swept through her own. Miranda blinked. A teenage girl was now hugging the little girl. "A girl just walked right through me like I was a ghost!" she cried, startled.

"What does she look like?"

Miranda squinted her eyes. The teen had long, brown hair and grayish eyes like hers. "It's me."

"Are you saying anything?"

She listened to the girls' conversation. The little girl - Baby Grace - was talking. "Ramona wants you to come into the shop so she can meet you," she informed Young Miranda.

Miranda repeated what Baby had said. "They're going into that shop, Nathan. It looks like the one by the Art Café you went into in Downtown."

"Follow them in."

She reluctantly did so. A high-pitched bell dinged as the girls stepped through the doorway. It did not ding for Miranda.

"It's gross in here," both Mirandas exclaimed, gazing at the clear containers of arms and legs, heads, and genitals.

An eccentric woman clad in tight, rather revealing clothes made her entrance. "Hello, Darling!" Ramona greeted her. So this was Ramona A. Stone. Miss Heavy, Smeared Lipstick and Butchy Haircut. How could Miranda forget such a face?

"I see Ramona," she told Nathan.

"What's she saying?"

"She asked me if I like her shop."

"What did you say?"

"It's kind of creepy."

"She's asking me if I would like to go into the back room."

"Are you?"

She watched as Ramona led the two girls through a hanging red and gold quilt.

"Yes."

"Are _you_ going in with them?"

Miranda rolled her eyes defiantly, following them into the room. She shivered as she passed through the unmoving quilt. Now she had a full view of the back room clearly. It was more like a secret chamber than a back room of a shop. It consisted of mainly human heads and organs that were carelessly lying on the floor. Two males, a teenage boy and a man whose face was hidden by the hood of a cloak, were bent at a long, wooden work desk, each carving something drenched in blood. The boy studied her younger self nervously.

"Nathan, you were right; Leon was involved. He's right here in front of me as a teenager."

"I told you. He's a bad liar."

"I remember him as a sweet guy," she mumbled.

"What was that?" the voice taunted. "You remember?"

"It's coming back to me…"

Young Miranda waved at Young Leon. He waved shyly back, his hand stained red with the blood. The hooded man remained unresponsive to all. He carved.

"Do you like what you see here?" Ramona asked, grinning a horrible Cruella De Vil grin.

"No," Young Miranda answered truthfully. "All I see here are a bunch of gruesome things. Why would I like it?"

Ramona pursed her lips in disgust. "Most proper people like yourself would love to see something like this. Why, look at Blank. He enjoys working back here, don't you Blank?"

"Yes Ma'am," he agreed, smiling cheerfully.

"You should too, girl." Ramona picked up a lonely knife on the desk. "Baby, go outside," she ordered the little girl. "We have to show you friend something."

"But I promised her I wouldn't leave her alone with anyone. Besides, it's time for Algeria to give me my medicine and he isn't here."

"You do it," she told the hooded man. "It was your glorious idea anyway."

The man, whistling mischievously, got up from his stool. He strolled out of the room with Baby in front of him.

"How would you like to become a work of Art, Darling?

A bolt of fear struck through Miranda's nerves. She really did remember now, especially this scene. The rusty scent of blood. The pain. The wicked laughing of Ramona A. Stone. She couldn't handle experiencing this again.

"Nathan!" she wept. "Get me out of here, please!"

"Why? What's wrong?" He sounded genuinely worried.

"I remember everything! Get me out and I'll tell you!"

Ramona had trapped Young Miranda in a corner. The woman's bony fingers wrapped around her neck. While she struggled, the tip of the knife blade was breaking skin at the beginning of her abdomen.

Then she could smell the scent of smoke and alcohol instead of blood and medicine. She was back.


	13. Scars

Chapter 13: Scars

She was welcomed by a damp cloth patting her forehead gently. Nathan was on his knees on the driver's seat, reaching over to her. Miranda expected him to say, "Dorothy! Dorothy!"

She peered groggily out the car window. They were parked on the side of the road.

"Nathan…" she moaned. "I remember now."

"I know." He rid of the cloth by throwing it into the backseat. He returned to his normal sitting position in the driver's seat. "What happened? You went into the room, Leon was there, then what?"

"Ramona made Baby Grace leave with a man in a hooded cloak. I think…I think that was the Artist. He had to give her her medicine. Then Ramona asked me if I wanted to become a 'work of Art'."

"What did she threaten you with?"

"A knife."

"No needles?"

"No…" Why wasn't he being sympathetic? "She went to cut me open. Then the man…the Artist... he came in and tripped over Ramona's leg. He knocked her over. I still have the scar from the knife. I didn't know what it was from until now."

"Where?"

Miranda blushed unwillingly. "It starts just below my chest."

"Can I see it?" Nathan cleared his throat, realizing what he was asking. "I mean, unless you feel uncomfortable about it. I'm curious about these things."

Miranda had lifted up her shirt just up to the bottom of her breasts before he could finish. She revealed a long, jagged pale line from there to her bellybutton.

"The scar is about six and half inches long," he noted. "Vertical. Deep too. She used a Bowie knife." He traced the scar with his pinky finger until it ended. "How did you escape?"

She pulled her shirt down. "The usual way. Running."

"Ah." He turned on the ignition. Soon he was revving up the Barracuda. They were on the road again in no time at all. "Thank you, Miranda. It was the Artist. He use to use chemicals to strengthen the organs of his 'projects' for years. Ramona just shoots them up with a drug and cuts away. It surprises me that she didn't attempt to use a drug on you. Probably as a punishment for socializing with Baby. Did you ever see Baby Grace Blue again?"

"No. I never went near that shop after that."

"Hmm. Well, we're at Spider's now."


	14. The Spider

Chapter 14: The Spider's Den

The Barracuda came to a halt in the driveway of a rundown home. It was dark. A single light blazed through the front window. It was a dreary residence in an even drearier neighborhood.

Nathan got out of the car. Miranda made to do the same, but he knocked on the windshield, pointing at her. He mouthed the word 'stay'. She watched disappointingly as the detective entered the house without her. Was what Spider had in there really that bad?

Another knock sounded, this time on her window. It was Leon. A flash of him as a teenager holding a carving knife came to her.

"Leon." She opened the door. "What's in there?"

He gently pulled her out of the car by her arm. "Let's take a walk."

They ambled down the street. Each home became slummier and slummier the further they advanced.

"You see," Leon said, "Spider believes that he is chosen to create a 'Black Widow' by cutting off woman's legs and connecting them to the main body of his first victim. He needs eight in all. When he finishes his deed, he himself will be complete spiritually."

"How many legs does he have now?"

"Seven. You were going to be the last one."

"Lucky me." Miranda muttered.

"Yeah."

"Why is Nathan in there? To arrest him or what?"

Leon looked at her for a moment, puzzled. "He's an Art Crimes detective. He's doing what he does best."

"And what's that?"

"Judge art."

Judge art? Judge? "What do you mean by judge?"

"Well, if he thinks the art isn't Art, it's a crime. Almost like a fashion cop."

"Then why has he risked his life and time to keep me safe?"

Leon shrugged. "He likes you? No, I'm sure he did it in able to be where he is now. I don't want you to hate him. I don't even hate him. He's just doing his job. The world is being choked with pointless mutilation that is too quickly labeled as Art. Detective Adler minimizes that number."

It was too much to comprehend. Nathan was another Art addict, not against the idea of Art. He wasn't who she thought he was. Yet, she was still alive because of him. She had to give him that. No, it was impossible to hate him entirely.

"I am a little mad," she confessed.

"You have a right to be," Leon said. "If it makes you feel any better, he does want to kill Ramona."

"That does make me feel better. But why not the Artist?" Asking that made her feel like a traitor. Why would she even dream of having that polite, handsome man killed?

"It depends on his artwork."

"Wait," Miranda panicked. "What about Spider? What if Nathan doesn't like his Black Widow? Will he kill him?" Spider was the last person she wanted dead. Sure, he was a serial killer. Sure, he was vicious and had kidnapped her, knocked her out with chemicals, and poked her with a needle, but she had reserved a soft spot in her heart for him.

"I wouldn't worry," Leon consoled her. "Besides, even if there was a fight to the death between Nathan and Spider, I would bet on Spider any day.

* * *

"This is shit," Nathan scoffed, shaking his head at the lifeless female lying in the middle of the study. It was a sort of shrine. A fireplace stood behind the female. A red Persian rug laid underneath her. One candle was placed at each corner of the rug, illuminating the horrid sight. Now, the female wasn't an average unclothed one. It was apparent that one of her original legs had been chopped off rather unprofessionally. First time kill, she was. A tanner leg had replaced her own, sticking out like a sore thumb. It was attached by messy stitching. The five other legs were stitched neater - the unprofessional had evolved into a professional. Those legs were partnered up symmetrically on each side of the female, minus one. One pair was at the hips, one pair was at the ribcage, and lastly, the loner was conjoined to the body where the left arm should have been. Every leg varied in size. They grew thin where it was obvious that a heavy leg or even an average leg would not fit well. With the lengths, however, one could conclude that the artist did not care if the leg came from a giraffe of a woman or a midget. None of the legs had came from a midget, but there was a particularly scrawny one on the right side attached to the ribcage.

"Why do you say that my work is shit?" Spider challenged Nathan.

"It's sloppy," he said. "Take a look at those legs - different sizes. Different skin tones. It would great as a painting, but as a sculpture - no."

Spider's lip twitched. "This isn't a sculpture. This isn't what you call Art. In fact, it isn't art at all. It's my Salvation. It's the reason why I was born. Don't dissect it and I won't dissect you."

"That seems fair…" Nathan yawned. He didn't need to be hassled right now. The sculpture was not Art, Spider was correct. It was time to move on. Time to judge the next creation. Hopefully, the next would be worthy of such a title as 'Art'.

"You finished?" Spider folded his arms, ready for more insults.

"Yes."

"Really? I've heard rumors that you punish the artist who fail to create Art by death."

"Only if the artist argues his creation is Art."

"Oh, I suppose I don't know everything then," Spider grunted.

"That's surprising," Nathan cracked.

"I'll ignore that one," Spider said, stepping out of the study. He shut the door once Nathan had exited also.

Nathan released a deep sigh as the cool air pricked at his face. Miranda and Leon were leaning against his Barracuda. She appeared to be upset, while he appeared to be guilty for some reason. That fucker had let the cat out of the bag, hadn't he? It was inevitable she was going to find out that her knight in shining armor was just another black knight sooner or later. He wished to avoid her, as well as a fight, so he had to do something. Something against his morals.

"Spider."

"What?"

"You mind taking Miranda on your bike? I'll take Leon. We'll follow you to the Artist."


	15. The Treatment

Chapter 15: The Treatment

Spider accelerated his motorcycle through the small patch of woods, heading towards the next segment of road. Miranda clung tightly to his waist, setting her head on his shoulder. She was astonished at Nathan telling Spider that she had to ride with him. Was he mad at her? Not as mad as she was at him - that was impossible. Was he avoiding her? That had to be it. At least Spider wasn't avoiding her. She hugged him once.

"What was that for?" Spider shouted over the engine.

"For being so nice to me," Miranda shouted back.

"I don't recall being nice to you."

She grimaced. "You didn't kill me yet. That's a plus."

"From your point of view, I guess it is."

"Y'know," Miranda said, "I don't think your heart is as cold as you think it is."

"Yeah, it's colder."

Trying to soften Spider up was a lost cause. She decided on a different approach.

"How do you know where the Artist is?"

"Scent," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Scent? How does that work?"

"His smell is on you. It's a familiar and rare smell."

Paint and blood were the only scents Miranda remembered the Artist having. Wait, the smell of blood was on her? "What is the smell exactly?"

"A special cologne derived from the black rose."

Miranda nodded. Black roses were a special scientific species made from genetic engineering. They were beautiful flowers with a glorious, pungent smell. Many perfume and cologne companies used the flower as one of their ingredients for their product. Unfortunately, only so many were produced and soon became extinct. Miranda never saw or sniffed the flower, but she knew that the Artist's cologne was swoon worthy.

"I thought they were all extinct."

"They are. The Artist must have hoarded a couple petals. The only place where he could of gotten any would be at a warehouse at the northern edge of New Jersey where they were first invented."

"Oh." She was unable to distinguish all of Spider's words because of the roaring of the bike She had only heard the word 'warehouse'.

"Miranda," Spider called to her a few minutes later. "You're not as innocent as you think."

* * *

"Are you giving me the silent treatment because I told her?" Leon questioned Nathan. He hadn't made a single noise since they had left Spider's hideout. A half an hour had came and gone.

"No. I just don't want to talk to you. Do you mind?" Nathan scratched the side of his head in annoyance.

"She had to know sometime. I mean, she did ask. I didn't want to lie to her."

"What, you only tell the truth when it's convenient for you?"

Leon remained silent.

"Are you going to give me the silent treatment because I hurt your feelings?" he mocked him.

"I'm on your side, Nathan. You don't have to treat me like a criminal," Leon said.

"No one is on my side and you are a criminal."

"And you are a selfish bastard."

Something in Nathan's mind snapped. If one really listened, they could hear it as it rattled around, lost forever. The detective, without warning, reached over, grabbing Leon's coarse, black hair. He banged the young man's head against the passenger's window, once. Twice. Nathan returned his concentration on the road after he realized the car was swerving wildly from side to side.

Free of the strong fingers tangled in his hair, Leon found that the most intelligent thing to do was to cradle his aching and bleeding head in his hands and weep in agony. The most intelligent thing Nathan found to do was to wonder if the window was cracked.

Finally, Leon formed audible words. "What did I ever do for you to hate me?"

"You came into my life at the wrong time."

"Bad timing, that's all?"

"Yes," Nathan said sternly. "I'm surprised that Miranda doesn't loath you. Talk about not telling people things."

"I wasn't apart of that. I was just a kid carving a knee cap at the time it happened. I did nothing."

"You could of helped her and you know it."

"It wasn't my business."

"Right. I remember a kid, a little older than the one Miranda remembers, who was watching as someone carved through a live human body. You could of helped them then. Business or not."

Leon shut his eyes, feeling the last tears slither down his cheeks. "Does it still hurt?"

"Not physically. Anymore."

"Oh…Hey, listen…I am sorry about that."

"I know."

"You should tell Miranda, maybe she will -."

"Sympathize? Pity? I don't need that. I'll never need that."

"Miranda pities me. We get along well."

"You're weak, Leon. I'm stronger, inside and out."

"You're an egoistical nervous wreck," Leon pointed out.

"I don't have half the amount of ego the Artist has."

"True, but there's no arguing that's you're a nervous wreck."

Nathan exhaled a swirling cloud of smoke and plugged his cigarette back into his mouth. He grinned. "Nervous? Who's nervous?"


	16. The Artist: Heartbeat

Chapter 16: The Artist - Heartbeat

_Organs. The most crucial of all the tissues in the human body. The heart, a vital organ, pumps blood through the blood vessels by repeated, rhythmic contractions. The blood surges into other organs, such as the brain. The brain… what a fantastic thing! It stores all kinds information for you: times tables, your favorite poems, memories of hot summer days by a lake, good times with friends, your first true accomplishment in life, and your imagination. How can one create something creative without imagination? What is one without creativity? Nothing but a drab leach sucking the touchable material items on this wicked planet: money, clothes, and other ludicrous fakeries. I do not need money. I can live off the land if I need to, or what's left of it. I do not need clothes. Clothes are only for fashionable people who actually believe that their peers would think highly of them if they donned Aeropostale shirts and khakis. What happened to wearing clothes just for warmth? Give me an ordinary blanket on chilly nights and I will be thankful. _

_The blood travels to the rest of the organs, such as: the liver, kidneys, spleen, intestines, ect. Let us elaborate more on the heart. The heart does not only control blood flow, but indicates emotions, most commonly love. I could feel Miranda's heart thump-thump in her chest against me as I held her in my arms. It was a most pleasant, calming feeling. Then, when she sniffed the blood, the thump-thump grew to a rapid rate. The arrhythmia of her heart triggered something unbelievable within me. I felt refreshed - alive. The flame of life that is my soul rose. Her fear had quenched that indescribable, no-name spiritual thirst that everyone has. I could call it the thirst for 'destruction', but it does not suffice. Nevertheless, I felt that I could take her then and there, yet I remained the gentleman. I wonder if she could feel my heart pounding against its body cage. Perhaps not. She was too consumed with fear to acknowledge how my body was reacting to her. _

_I left her out of pure politeness after she admitted she was uncomfortable with a man who worked with bone and blood. I almost caressed her cheek, thinking of how her skin would feel entangled between my fingers. Not dried, but fresh skin - still watery. Dried skin is rough, unpleasing to rub, but fresh skin…oh! How smooth and soft it is! Unfortunately, I could not bring myself to do so; it was not time and her fear had evaporated, replaced by love. I was calm once again - levelheaded. We were both disappointed after I left the café bar._

_Speaking of skin, that Nathan Adler is still hanging by the skin of his teeth. I imagine he is having trouble controlling himself around the girl. He is a lonely, lonely man. A hooker here and there, yes. A lover who truly cares for him? No. Impossible. Who would care for a selfish, macho independent like him? And a deceiver also. I believe he hasn't told the girl what he really does. If he had, she would not have smiled when he and the other two ran toward her, wearing worried faces, in the bar. Time has passed since then, however. Maybe he has lost her trust completely now. I do hope so._

_That hairy bastard and the stooge are still helping Miranda. I figured they would have both abandoned her long before now, especially Leon Blank. Knowing him personally, he would have usually already bolted and left the country. Dare he seek revenge? Or is he still seeking Ramona? Rest assured, he shall find one or the other. _

_Spider puzzles me. I know he wants my head upon his knife, but could he not do it alone? Is he too trapped by the affections of this woman? It appears that I have competition. Let the games begin._


	17. Warehouse

Chapter 17: Warehouse

Moonlight beamed upon the shattered shards of glass in Spider's hand. There were plenty more on the ground.

"Did you have to break the window?"

Spider gave Miranda an annoyed look. He tipped his hand, letting the glass shards fall. "The door was locked and I felt like it. He knows anyway."

"Right, the all knowing Artist," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You scared? I've noticed that you're not normally sarcastic unless something is bothering you."

"Maybe I am." Miranda felt a gloved hand slyly slide into hers. She glanced up at Spider questionably. He smirked.

"Let's go," Spider said, leading her to the low, glassless window. They hopped into the an empty narthex-type room. A brick wall stood a few yards away from them, ending the room abruptly. A black door was smack in the middle of it.

Spider shrugged. There was a tug at his arm. He turned casually back. Miranda had stopped. "What now, woman?"

"Shouldn't we wait for Nathan and Leon?" she asked.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. "We got here first, so we can go in first. Besides, there's nothing in there that I can't handle alone."

"Alright…"

He opened the door for them. Miranda gasped. A gigantic football field sized room laid before them. It welcomed them with a blast of fragrance of paint, blood, plaster, and that cologne. In front of the two intruders, was a stage. A large poster of a black and red bull's-eye target hung on the back wall of it. Silk paint-stained curtains made the stage appear artsy. The uncarpeted floor underneath their feet was a work of art itself - spots of every color paint imaginable had claimed it.

"Wow, look at all the old stuff," Miranda said, pointing to a rusty bare bed, a scratched-up table, a 1940's bath, and numerous wooden chairs.

"The unsaleable yard sale," Spider nodded.

"Welcome to my humble abode," a voice whispered in Miranda's ear.

Miranda yelped, gripping Spider's hand with all of her might. Spider struggled out of it, yanking his knife from his belt.

"I am sorry, Miranda. Did I frighten you?"

She turned around uneasily, facing the Artist. He stared down at her innocently with his dazzling blue eyes. She couldn't help but to smile. "Yes," Miranda replied. "But I'm okay now."

"That is good. Spider, how are you? I do not think we formally met, have we? Is that not a shame?" The Artist pushed the knife away nonchalantly. Spider drew it back to where it was - aimed at the Artist's chest. The Artist's eyebrows went up. "My knife is bigger than yours," he commented.

"The length doesn't matter, it's the strength of the person who has it," Spider said smoothly.

"Clever man, but it is not always true, is it, Miranda?"

Miranda gulped. All of these innuendos were draining her sanity. "I-I don't know," she stammered.

"Of course not. Spider, I' am going to ask you nicely to not point that at me."

"Does it make you nervous?" Spider twirled the knife between each of his fingers like baton.

"No. It is rude."

Spider scoffed. "I'll make this quick then." He lunged at the Artist, but the man dodged both him and the knife with ease. Spider tried again, this time tearing a piece of the Artist's short sleeved, black jacket.

The Artist clicked his tongue in distaste at his opponent. "I realize, Spider, that one-on-one combat with you is unwinnable, but while you have your expert fighting skills, I have my friends."

"I'll take you and your friends."

"Anytime?"

"Anytime."

"Alright." He whistled the same tune Miranda had heard him whistle in Ramona's back room seven years ago.

Men - or something close - crept our of the side rooms of the stage on their hands and knees like wolves on the prowl. Miranda winced when she saw fish strapped to the their pale, bloody bodies with duck-tape. Their eyes were covered by cloth, however, it seemed they still knew where their prey was. Three unexpectantly pounced on Spider at once, knocking him down. The other two tied his limbs tightly with thin ropes.

"Take him away, but do not seriously harm him," the Artist ordered them.

"Get off of me! Stop!" Spider roared inhumanly. One of the 'friends' head-butted him, introducing him to unconsciousness.

The Artist bent down, picking up the fallen knife. He twirled it between each of his fingers like Spider had done, studying the how the light reflected off of the blade with awe.

"We are alone once again, Miranda. Is that not lovely?"


	18. The Minotaur

Chapter 18: The Minotaur

Miranda was caught. She didn't know whether she should run after Spider and his captors or remain with the Artist. She would be far safer with him. At the moment, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Do you find my acolytes fascinating?" the Artist asked her.

"If that's the word." Actually, she was sure that the word was 'sickening'. "What are they?"

"They assist artists on certain projects."

"Like tying up a man and taking him away some place?"

"Exactly," he laughed. Miranda wasn't sure if he was really joking or not.

"What are you going to do with us?"

"I have not decided on the future of Spider, but I happen to have a faint idea of yours."

"What?"

The Artist leaned forward so that his lips just brushed her ear. "It's a secret," he whispered.

She shivered. He was planning something awful for her, yet she couldn't help thinking of him as romantic. Dracula was romantic. She pictured the Artist with long, sharp fangs dripping blood. She shivered again.

"Are you cold, Love? I could get you a jacket."

Miranda wanted to ask him if she could wear his jacket even though it had short sleeves, but she resisted.

"No, no. I'm not cold. I was just thinking…of things…"

The Artist nodded. Whether or not he knew what 'things' she was thinking about, she couldn't tell.

"I would give you a tour but I do not want you to be disgusted."

"You mean by your Art? Are they in the rooms behind the stage?"

"Not all of them. If you peer to the left of me near the bath, you will find a tall figure, it's identity hidden by a sheet."

Miranda did so. The figure stood at least six foot four. The sheet barely reached the floor. She wondered what the two points sticking outwards were. "Is it a bull?"

"That is fairly close, Miranda," the Artist said, gliding to the figure. "It would be a tremendous joy to reveal to you what I have been sweating blood struggling to complete. Will you give me that honour?"

Miranda sighed. Truthfully, she didn't want to see any Art, no matter who sweated blood in the making of it. She had to make a deal. "If I agree to see that, will you let Spider go?"

The Artist chuckled morbidly. "You drive a hard bargain, Love. Unfortunately, I am unable to do so. Notice how willingly you stand here speaking to me? If I release Spider, he would attack everything in sight like a rabid beast."

"He wants to kill you," Miranda stated bluntly.

"I am not oblivious to that information. Quite obvious when he attempted to stab me several times not fifteen minutes ago."

"But he's the only one who wants to kill you. Nathan and Leon won't attack anything. Are you going to send those things to imprison them to when they get here?"

"How about this, Darling - you see my latest project and I will not incarcerate

your other friends."

"Deal." She held out her hand for him to shake. He took it, turning it so her palm faced downwards. He kissed her first two knuckles. A gentleman's kiss.

"Are you thinking again?" he inquired politely.

"Huh?" She realized that she had zoned out.

"You were shivering."

"Yeah…I was thinking… Can I see what's under sheet number one?"

The Artist grinned. He was giddy with joy, his suaveness vanishing instantly.

"Behold! The Minotaur!" He swiftly swept the sheet away. As soon as he did, Miranda wanted to go back on her deal.

The project was a muscular human body sporting a bull's head. The Minotaur, as he called it, had blood splotches every few inches of its body. "It's missing a few parts," the Artist explained, loosing the battle of keeping his composure. "However, see the upper body and arms? Those are from an Italian hitman in the Bronx. I beheaded him after he had made a hit. He was an avid weightlifter, though he did not lift on Sundays - Sabbath day. The legs came from a long-distance track runner who had cheated during a marathon race. I gutted him in his apartment. He was drinking celebratory wine mailed to him by his girlfriend in Alaska. She did not know of his death until three months after. She thought he was ignoring her, so she sent a break-up letter. Was she surprised when she found out the truth! The Hitman's upper-body, as of now, is mostly hollow. I did not want my fantastic creation to have the insides of a drunken, chain-smoking Italian. I collected the kidneys from a young girl in a hospital who told me she wished she would die soon. The fat teenage boy next to her, carrying the identical disease, - I believe it was brain cancer - ridiculed her for it. He called her 'Suicidal Suzy'. I took his digestive system. The head is hollow too, apart from the eyes. I kept them. They contribute a majestic quality. Ah, the lips! I almost forgot to mention those. Do they look familiar to you, Love?"

Miranda was drawn to the lips from the beginning of the Artist's description of his Minotaur. They were stretched uncomfortably across the bull's own, creating a wide, closed-mouthed Cruella De Vil smile.

"Ramona…" she breathed in shock, receding in her steps.

"Yes," the Artist said. "I paid her back for what she did to you. I was forced to wait seven years until I could do so."

"You just ripped her lips right off of her? No remorse?" She felt queasy.

"No remorse. Never remorse. I have to correct you - I did not rip off her lips. That act is quite messy and occurs mainly in cartoons. I tied her down using the same rope Spider is currently restrained with. I took my newly-sharpened knife and carved out her entire mouth. Her screams… Oh! If you can only imagine! They were beautiful. So scarred by pain. The screams were low too, that is, after she became tongue-less. It was glorious. Then I painstakingly cut out her lips, stitching them to the Minotaur like so. The remains are stored along with the body. Dear Miranda, have I abhorred you?"

Miranda was hyperventilating. All the details - she just couldn't bear them. Was there something wrong with her? Who else would be in her present state from hearing that story? It didn't take place in front of her. Shame rushed over her as the Artist gracefully scooped up her trembling body in his arms. Why couldn't she be like everyone else?


	19. Heartless

Chapter 19: Heartless

"Miranda, wake up."

"Wha?"

Miranda half-opened an eye. The blurry face of Detective-professor Nathan Adler was above her. He was catering to her once again with the cloth.

"Nathan." She shot open both eyes fully, grabbing a hold of his shoulders. "We have to get out of here! He murdered Ramona! Her lips are on the Minotaur!"

"I know," Nathan said, staring down at her guiltily. "Try relaxing for awhile."

Disobeying his advice, she continued. "Did you see it? Did you see what he had done to all those people? Taking pieces from their bodies and adding them to that - that monster?

"I saw the Minotaur." Nathan scratched the side of his face. Miranda registered this as a sign that something was wrong.

"You judged it didn't you?" she hissed.

"Yes, I did," he replied offensively.

"And you liked it?" She was on the verge of tears.

"Yes, I did. It's proportions were correct, the structure of the beast - amazing. The idea - original. And all the emotion!"

"Shut up! I get it! You fell in love with it! Let's just find Spider and get out of here."

"We can't," Nathan murmured gravely.

"What?"

"We can't," he repeated louder. "I can, but you can't. I did my job. If I rescue you, I would be breaking so many rules. I'm not allowed to interfere with Artists' artwork. The Artist's next piece might be even better than this one." He had mumbled the last sentence, but Miranda knew what he had said. A mix of frustration and hatred burst out of her. She leapt from the cot, tackling him to the floor. She then launched a series of punches to the man's chest and abdomen, his face being protected by his arms.

"Miranda! Stop it!" he cried harshly. "I don't want to hurt you, but you're hurting me!"

"You deserve it!" she shouted.

"Miranda!" Nathan's voice squeaked at the end of her name, causing Miranda to hesitate in alarm. Nathan instantly curled forward, upsetting the girl's balance, pinning her wrists down. "Miranda…" he gasped for air. "Relax. If you do, I'll show you something that we have in common."

"What would we have in common?"

Nathan stood up, offering to pull her to her feet. She refused with an arrogant wave of the hand. He proceeded in unbuttoning his shirt as though he was being pressured. Miranda shyly turned her head.

"Miranda, look," Nathan ordered sharply. She immediately returned her sights to him. She gasped at what she saw.

Nathan's torso bore several jagged dark-bluish scars much more severe than her own. One started it's route at the peak of his sternum, continuing until it reached an area about an inch away from the right nipple. Another also began at the sternum, meeting the first, creating an acute angle. It's journey ended about an inch away from the left nipple. Then there was a horizontal scar which drove right across the lower part of the manubrium. Miranda blinked. It was an 'A'. She studied the other scars. A sharp angled 'R' and a 'T', whose purposely wobbly vertical line ended just before the pubic bone, followed.

"Art," Miranda read. "Nathan…" Her throat went dry.

"You're not the only one with the bad memories involving Art, Miranda," Nathan said, re-buttoning his shirt. Miranda had a brief need to trace the scars with a finger like he had to hers. "I was sent to judge Ramona A. Stone's art a few years ago. I told her it was shit. She resented that. Next thing I know, I'm strapped to a concrete floor like a sacrificial lamb having this etched into my skin. No drugs either," he added, taking a heavy puff of his cigarette.

"My God…Nathan. I'm sorry. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't want to get attached, and I didn't want you to either. If I showed you in the car, you would of felt a connection with me that would have been painfully shattered when you discovered that I had lied to you about my job."

"Yeah. I guess you're right. Why do you still judge art if that's one of the reasons why that happened to you?"

"I was waiting for a chance to judge Ramona's art again. This time, however, I was going to kill her right off. I owed her death for the failure of her last piece anyway. Now that she's dead, I'm going to resign from Art Crimes."

"Resign now. Save me," Miranda pleaded.

"I can't. It's against my morals. It's like stealing the spaghetti from a spaghetti and meatball dinner."

"And I'm the spaghetti." she said.

"Yes. I've always loved spaghetti though," he grinned at her. Miranda couldn't see how he could. He was leaving her to die and he had the nerve to grin.

"Stay with me then." She almost said 'be the meatballs', but she thought it would sound too corny.

"You're not making this easy for me."

"This shouldn't be easy! You're going to leave me to get chopped up by some murderous freak!"

"Murderous Freak, eh? That's funny." Nathan contemplated his next sentence for a moment. "Y'know," he said in his thick New Jersey accent, discarding his used cigarette and preparing a new one. "I had a major crush on you."

Miranda studied him thoroughly. His aging face. His graying hair, presently free from the shelter of his black Stetson hat. His sideburns. His dreadful addiction to tobacco and alcohol. He did have an okay style in clothing and a slightly attractive body - apart from the scars. Could she of given him a chance?

"But then," he continued, "I realized that you were just part of my job and there were two other loons who have fallen head over heels for you. Do you know what's really funny, Miranda? They're out to kill you, yet you love them anyway. Both of them."

Miranda felt a pang in her heart. It was true.

"Goodbye." He leaned towards her. She knew what he wanted and permitted him to make his move. She removed the cigarette from in between his teeth. Nathan smiled - the first genuine smile she had seen him have since they first met. He pressed his lips hungrily to hers. The kiss was gentle and slow. She caressed the back of his neck. He cupped the side of her jaw. Suddenly she felt him shake. His hand spasmed. His mouth moved rigidly. He made a fierce choking sound. Miranda tasted a rusty liquid dribbling from his tongue on to hers. Nathan's knees buckled, nearly taking Miranda downward with him. She managed to hold him up by hooking her arms under his armpits. She tilted him backwards, receiving the image of his cold, green eyes lolling back into their sockets. His recently kissed lips appeared stiff. Miranda's hands roamed curiously over his mid-back She gripped some kind of rectangular object lodged into it.

She saw an ominous shadow cast over Nathan's face. The owner of the shadow spoke: "A heart for the Minotaur."


	20. Dissection

Chapter 20: Dissection

Out of the darkness, the Artist sauntered to Nathan's corpse. He tugged roughly at it, prying Miranda's fingers from the elbows. He rended his knife from its back. Then, turning the it over, he ripped the shirt open. Miranda cringed as the Artist skillfully sliced down the sternum to the navel. It sounded like wood being sawed. He placed the knife between his teeth while he separated the two halves of the cut sternum and ribcage. The flaps were chopped off so it would be impossible for them to get in his way as he reached inside with an ungloved hand. The 'A' was gone.

"The lungs are ghastly," The Artist muttered, tearing the heart's protective sac - the pericardium - open. "Ah, here it is!" Miranda heard snap! snap! sounds as the heart's restraints broke. His hand came up with what had to be Nathan's heart. "Is it not gorgeous?"

Miranda ignored him, dropping on her knees beside Nathan. She caressed his head in her arms. She expected him to wake up gagging and breathing her name. This time she would be the one with the damp cloth. This time she would be the nurse.

"Love," the Artist called to her. "Let us proceed to the main room. The Minotaur shall be complete after this is added."

"No," she replied, her voice surprisingly steady. "I want to leave with Nathan and Spider and Leon. Now."

"Miranda." The Artist's eyes were full of pity. "Nathan is dead."

"No… No… He's not. Nathan is alive and Spider and Leon -."

"Leon is dead too. I took his brain." He eyes lit up. "And what a fantastic brain it is! Think of it, two lovers in one piece? Is that not beautiful?"

"What…Lovers?"

"Yes. Ramona and Leon were husband and wife."

"No." She shook her head in disbelief. "He wouldn't. Besides, Ramona was old compared to him."

"Nathan was ancient compared to you. Love is ageless, my dear. She left him after the wedding - no honeymoon. Shame."

Leon was dead. Was Spider dead too? Morbid possibilities swam in her head. She clutched Nathan's head closer to her.

"You are getting blood all over you," the Artist informed her. She thought that he didn't want her to be soaked in blood. That was not the case. He was licking his lips at the sight, imagining her bathing in it.

"Miranda," a more assertive voice popped into the room. "Get up." Spider stood behind the Artist, his dagger out, ready for battle.

"How nice of you to join us, Spider." The Artist said. "Do you like my handiwork on the detective? Miranda seems to."

Spider glared at him, his eyes two balls of blue fire. They switched from Miranda cradling Nathan's corpse to Nathan's heart in the Artist's hand. "You mutilated him," Spider spat. "And you did it right in front of her, you son of a bitch!"

"Bravo. You figured out what is plain to see. You know what I fail to figure out? How did you get out of you room?"

"I told you I could handle you and your friends. I was mistaken at what time is all."

"You have not handled me yet."

Spider glanced up at the devil, unamused. He could hear Miranda chanting Nathan, Nathan over and over. This pained him greatly. Not just because she was delusional, but because she was paying more attention to a dead man than to him. He needed to act quickly. Unexpectantly. Spider raised the dagger. In a single, swift movement, he amputated the Artist's heart-holding arm.

The Artist clicked his tongue at the dripping wound. "That is going to stain my clothes. You are lucky that I am ambidextrous." He smiled. "Or this would conflict with my hobbies."

"Maybe I should take your other arm off too."

"You would have to cut off all my limbs off. Hmm. Would that not make an interesting piece?"

"You're deranged," Spider said, trying to yank Miranda to her feet. She dodged him, crawling on her hands and knees to the fallen arm and heart.

"Look at the pot calling the kettle black. If she is not to be my victim, she will be yours. Which leg will you take, Spider?" The Artist bent down, grazing Miranda's thigh with his remaining hand. "The left?" He grazed the shin of the other leg. "Or the right?"

Miranda stood up silently, groping the Artist's former arm. The valves of the heart were lightly pressed to her chin. She cocked her head at the two men in confusion.

"Her nervous system has gone numb," the Artist stated.

"Miranda, let's go."

"Go, Spider? What about Nathan?"

Spider gritted his teeth, the dissected cadaver in the corner of his eye. "He can't come."

"Has he replaced me?" She acted excited. "He does have a heart." She took Spider's hand with her free one. He led her out of the warehouse, hearing the sound of bedeviled whistling.

Spider had opened the door of Miranda's home. It was a dismal, cramped space. He directed her to the only furniture made to be sat on - a grubby pizza-stained couch. She had been silent the entire route from the warehouse to here. Their transportation - Nathan's beloved Barracuda, which Spider had hot-wired - had been ideal for this particular situation. He worried that if they had taken his bike, Miranda would of forgotten to hang on to him and roll onto the road.

"Miranda, I'm going."

"Why?" She was slowly returning to reality. "Don't you want me?" she questioned, laying the hand and heart combination down next to her. "For your Black Widow?"

"No. I can't kill you," he admitted.

"Then if you can't kill me, be my lover."

"No," he repeated. "You would receive nothing but grief from me."

"But Spider!" Miranda ran the short distance from the couch to him, hugging his solid body. "I love you."

He kissed her forehead. "You would be saying that same line to the Artist if he was here instead of me."

"No," she said wide-eyed, in denial.

"Yes. Goodbye, Miranda Thompson."


	21. Five Years

Chapter 21: Five Years Later

Miranda finished writing the last chapter of her novel. She squealed in delight. After two years of writing drafts and six months of typing, it was done. She stretched, extending her arms upwards. She yawned, catching a glimpse of the time in the left hand corner of the computer screen. 2:33 A.M. She clicked 'save' and shut down the computer.

After taking a hot shower, she slipped on a silk nightgown, retiring to her bedroom. The room alone was larger than her old home. Had more furniture too. Yes, the apartments in Downtown were exquisite. They cost money, of course.

Miranda opened her top dresser door. It slid out smoothly. Inside it was a large glass cylinder containing a male's arm gripping a human heart. Being a few years old, the skin would of naturally rotted out, but the liquid surrounding them preserved the skin cells. They were fresh. Miranda liked fresh. She brushed the gold medal in the drawer next to the cylinder.

"Were you proud?" a charming voice whispered in her ear.

Her heart pounded with pleasure. She whirled around, meeting the eyes of a past acquaintance. "Artist." She marveled at his presence. He still had spiky blonde hair and a slim yet built body structure. The different was he was wearing guy-liner and missing his left arm up to his elbow. He was clad in a black short-sleeved jumper with matching slacks.

"Hello, Love. Did you miss me?"

"Of course," Miranda answered. She had forgotten how much she adored his accent. "I've been waiting for you. I kept this hoping that you would come back for it."

The Artist tapped on the glass cylinder. "You won an award for it?"

"Yes," she replied, guilty. "And prize money."

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand."

The Artist let go a low whistle. "You have not sold it? You could make even more off of it."

"Like I said, I kept it for you."

"Very kind of you."

"Where have you been for the last five years? I heard that the warehouse on the north side was discovered completely abandoned."

"I had a particular destination in mind: New York. The Art there is fantastic. How many boys have you seen since we last met?"

Caught off guard by the sudden change of subject, Miranda had to ponder this a moment. "A few." Two exactly. After falling in love with three interesting, deadly men at once, all the other guys she encountered were drab and boring. "They didn't work out too well."

"I see." He tapped the glass again. "How is it living near the most popular Art Cafés in the state?"

"I like it," she replied honestly. "They remind me of you."

"You changed, my dear."

"Do you like the change?" she flirted.

The Artist brought her to him, wrapping his arm around her waist. He nibbled at her neck. Gently at first, then he bit down hard. Miranda didn't protest, she moaned in ecstasy. "You stole my heart," he growled. "Or rather Nathan's. How shall I seek revenge on you for that awful, awful crime?"

"You can do want you want to me." She stroked his jaw line.

"Thank you for the permission, Love."

The Artist kissed her deeply - possessively. He knocked her off the floor onto her queen-sized bed, straddling her, the kiss unbroken. Miranda slipped her hand underneath his jumper, treading her fingers over his chest and abs. His muscles were so taunt. He took this as a cue to take off his jumper. This act was difficult for him because of his missing arm. Miranda helped him by pulling at one side as he pulled at the other.

"You're beautiful, Artist," Miranda said in awe, as he flung the shirt to the floor.

"Do you want to be beautiful?" he asked, looking down at her with mischievous eyes.

"Yes."

"Alright then." He reached into his pocket, producing a syringe of clear liquid. "Here. Compliments of Algeria Touchshriek" He stuck it in her bicep like a normal shot.

"What's next, doctor?" she teased.

"You shall feel the effects soon enough, Miranda."

She held her breath, waiting for the pain. No pain. She felt as light as a feather. The man straddling her transformed into a hazy mist of red. The mist was talking to her. The words were deep and muffled. She could only distinguish a single word: "Completion."


	22. End of the Art Decade

Chapter 22: End of the Art Decade

Detective Maurice Escargot took a sip from his whiskey flask. The drink burned his throat, but he still craved more. It numbed his reaction to what was before him.

"Sickening," he grunted, sipping at the flask again. He held his recorder up to his mouth, speaking distinctly into it. "One male. One female. Laying in queen sized bed. Male. Late forties. Left arm missing. Deep, diagonal gash across his face from the upper left corner of forehead to lower right side of jaw. Right eye split. Right cheek torn. Right side of teeth - both uppers and lowers - uncovered. Right arm of male clinging to Female's waist. Female. Late twenties. Nude. Decapitated. Head yet to be found. Both arms missing. Bed sheets soaked in blood. Murder followed, if not directly, by suicide. Murder weapon: Bowie knife. Proposed motivation: Art.

Maurice switched off the recorder, pocketing it in his front cloak pocket. He muttered something under his breath as he walked away from the crime scene. "I hate Art."


	23. The Character Soundtrack

Character Soundtrack

Miranda - _Hello - _rock verson(Poe)

Nathan - _Holding Out For a Hero _(Frou Frou version)

Spider - _In The City_ (Kevin Rudolf)

The Artist - _Perfect Insanity _(Disturbed)

Leon Blank - _Calling All Skeletons_ (Alkaline Trio)

Relationships

Miranda & Nathan - _Vienna _(Ultravox)

Miranda & Spider -_ Lacrymosa_ (Evanescence)

Miranda & The Artist - _The Love Letter_ (Blaqk Audio)

Leon Blank & Ramona A. Stone - _Love Me Dead_ (Ludo)


End file.
